


Caged

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood Magic, F/F, Femslash, Magic Made Them Do It, Sexy Times, The Starks are Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:39:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe where many of the members of the Westerosi elite are magical creatures, the Lannisters seal Sansa Stark's wolf form deep within her. Margaery Tyrell vows to break the spell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged

**Author's Note:**

> I am a fairly good writer but a terrible person.

The light from the full moon shines through the drapes in Sansa’s bedroom. She tosses and turns beneath her sheets, and feels an itch beneath her skin that she simply cannot scratch. The itch has not gone away since the Lannisters sealed her wolf deep inside of her, but it grows far worse during the full moon. The feeling makes Sansa want to claw her skin off. She restrains herself, and clutches at the covers as she tries to will herself to sleep.

* * *

 

 

The next day is significantly more pleasant. The moon still hangs high and full in the sky, but Margaery Tyrell invites her to walk through the gardens with her. Seeing Margaery’s smiling face and warm eyes always puts Sansa in a better mood. They speak of nothing important for a good long while, and Sansa feels utterly at ease, except for the excitable, jumpy feeling in her stomach, but she tries not to think of that. It reminds her too much of what she felt for Joffrey before she realized he was not gallant and good.

“The Starks are lycanthropes, aren’t they?” Margaery asks her. Sansa stiffens a bit at the term. That’s what the Lannisters had called her when they sealed off her changes with blood magic. Southerners throw the term lycanthrope around like a dirty word, the way they would blasphemer or kinslayer.

Sansa does not correct her, and merely nods. She does not mention how much they all prefer the term werewolf.

“I’m sorry to pry,” Margaery tells her, “but I always thought that lycanthropes turned for the duration of the full moon. The moon’s full, now, and you’re still here. And human.” Sansa searches quickly around the garden, and sees that the guards are far away. The answer is bubbling up inside her, much like the acidic feeling underneath her skin, and Sansa ends up spewing the words like vomit before she’s even decided to say them.

“The Lannisters cut off my connection to my wolf,” Sansa says quickly, “They used some sort of vampire blood magic. I don’t know how to counter it.”

“You can’t turn?” Margaery asks.

“No,” Sansa admits, a bit of her true desperation seeping into her tone, “I can’t.”

“That’s barbaric,” Margaery says firmly, “that’s like- like cutting me off from my magic.” The Tyrells are a family full of witches, so Margaery must understand, to some extent. She sounds utterly terrified by the prospect. For Sansa, being cut off from her wolf form is like having lost a limb. She felt her father’s death like a searing pain as a member of her pack was ripped out of the world. She hopes that she would still be able to feel a family member’s death so strongly now. She desperately hopes that she would feel it, and just has not. The Lannisters say that Theon Greyjoy murdered Bran and Rickon, but she didn’t feel anything. She hopes, futilely, that this means that they still live.

Margaery looks into her eyes, and grabs her by the hands.

“I’m going to figure out how to fix that,” she says.

“How?” Sansa whispers. She can’t see how anything could unleash what’s been caged inside of her. Blood magic is the strongest that she knows of, and the blood of a family member makes a binding spell nearly impossible to break. Margaery breaks away from her, and murmurs a short spell. Something snakes up Margaery’s arm, and springs forth into a more recognizable form in her hand. A deep red rose blooms before her eyes on a thorny stem. Margaery places it into her hand, and casts a bigger spell, causing roses to bloom across the field.

“Tyrells are innovative,” she says with a sly little smile, “and we always get what we want.” Sansa realizes that Margaery can’t possibly be doing this out of the goodness of her heart. Altruism doesn’t exist. Kindness comes with a catch. But Margaery smiles at her so sweetly that Sansa wants to believe that Margaery truly cares for her.

Sansa grasps the red rose again, red like blood, red like romance. She looks to Margaery’s sweet face, and she’s never wanted anything more than for Margaery to be sincere.

* * *

 

 

 

Sansa’s chambers are pitch black. Her chambers are blacker than a funeral procession, and fear courses through her. She feels as if she’s been here before, as if she’s felt these things before. Suddenly, the scene changes. The room is illuminated quite well. Candles line her tables and sit in the hands of the servants who stand around the room. Rough, chaffing rope ties down Sansa’s arms and legs.

 

“Please don’t,” Sansa shouts, “I’ll be good- I won’t-“ Cersei Lannister looks her straight in the eyes, and there’s something almost like compassion in her low-lit green eyes. Her golden-blonde hair falls in ringlets around her face, and Sansa wonders why someone so beautiful would be so terrible.

“Of course not, little dove,” she says, “because you won’t be able to.” Sansa’s screams echo through her ears, but she can somehow hear the other woman’s laughter as she smear’s blood (Sansa’s father’s blood) onto her hand. She starts to chant, and her black pupils dilate the way a vampire’s always do in sight of blood.

“Please don’t,” Sansa begs, though she knows that it’s futile, “Please I won’t- I’ll be good, I promise. Just don’t kill my wolf- don’t!” The woman brings her thumb forth, and spreads the blood across Sansa’s forehead. She feels like a flame ignites on her forehead, and it spreads quickly through the rest of her body. She feels as though something icy-hot is running through her veins instead of blood, as if something foreign has invaded her body. She hears Joffrey’s cruel laugh, and she lets out a shrill, strident scream.

 

The scene changes again, but only slightly. The ropes remain, and the candles, but the pain is gone. And so is Cersei Lannister. In her place stands Margaery Tyrell. The girl places a gentle hand on Sansa’s face and looks almost lovingly into her eyes. Sansa wants to move, wants to touch her, but her hands are still bound back by the ropes.

“My little wolf,” she says, fondly, smiling at Sansa once again, “I’ve saved you.”

“You have,” Sansa agrees, hastily, hoping the other girl will set her free.

“Perhaps,” Margaery says, her voice fainter than mouse steps, “you can save me too.” Margaery takes one last look at Sansa, and tears her hand away. She turns away, her skirts twirling behind her.

 

“Wait!” Sansa shouts, trying to break free of the servants’ holds, “Margaery! Margaery, save me!” But the woman is already out of the room, and the candles are all blown out. Sansa is alone in the dark, aside from the ropes that still bind her to the bed. Sansa squirms and flails to no avail, so instead, Sansa screams. Sansa screams, and screams and screams until the scene changes once again.

 

She feels her soft sheets above her, and Sansa feels a strange sense of relief as she realizes that she is still in her chambers.

 _It was all a dream_ , she thinks, as she tries to steady her breath.

 _It was all a dream_ , she thinks again, but the thought does not calm her fears. Sansa makes a decision as she tries to calm herself down.

* * *

 

 

Sansa and Margaery meet in the gardens, again. It has become habit, almost. Sansa still enjoys it, but she doesn’t quite feel comfortable. She wants to, but she can’t get the images from her dream out of her head.

Sansa needs a bit more knowledge before she can quell her fears.

“What do you want?” Sansa asks softly.

“I want very much for you to be happy,” Margaery says. It almost feels sincere. Sansa can almost forget her dream, where Margaery took away the pain but left Sansa alone in the dark. Alone in the dark, and tied forever to the bed.

“I want for you to be able to shift,” Margaery tells her softly.

Sansa desperately wants to change again. She wants to run through the woods, feel the grass between her paws, and smell every tiny scent. Most of all, she wants to be able to feel her siblings again. She wants to know that Arya and Bran and Rickon are still alive, or know for certain that they are not. She’s a Stark, and by the old gods and the new, Sansa wants to be a wolf again.

 

Margaery grabs Sansa’s hands, and the two walk through more of the gardens, hand in hand. Sansa tries to ignore the uneasy churning feeling and the butterflies in her stomach.

* * *

 

 

 

The gardens become their personal spot. Other people visit of course, but none as often as they do. And it is the only place where they can truly speak to one another. Sansa has probably told Margaery more than she should have, but it’s so nice to have someone to talk to that Sansa cannot even remind herself to be prudent. All thoughts of discretion are left behind once Margaery starts to speak in her kind, lilting voice.

“I made a vial of cramp soothing potion for you,” Margaery tells her. Sansa smiles, but she knows that the cramp potion was not the reason that Margaery wanted to speak to her today. She knows (or hopes, at least) that it has to do with her wolf form.

“And the other thing?” Sansa asks, trying and failing to be subtle.

“I’m working on it,” Margaery says, biting her lip. She scans the gardens thoroughly to make sure that no one is eavesdropping on them.

“There isn’t much information on caging a lycanthrope,” she says, “it’s mainly based in legend. I’ve been scouring through tomes but I haven’t found anything useful yet.” They slip into a semi-awkward silence, and Sansa breaks it.

“I’m worried about you,” Sansa says. Margaery raises her eyebrow.

“You know what I’ve said of Joffrey,” Sansa elaborates softly, “I’m afraid of what he might do.”

“Joffrey has not been awful,” Margaery tells her, with a sly smile, “he even let me pick the date of the wedding.” There’s an awkward sort of silence that Sansa does not know how to bridge, and Margaery thankfully changes the subject.

“What is it like to be a lycanthrope?” Margaery asks her. Sansa decides that they are close enough for her to explain. What harm could come of it?”

“First,” she says, “we all prefer the term werewolf.” Margaery nods along, and Sansa continues.

“It’s like feeling everything tenfold of how you do as a human,” Sansa says, remembering midnight runs through the Wolfswood with her father and siblings, “your senses are heightened, and half the time, you can feel what your pack-members feel.” Sometimes she knew what Arya was feeling before Arya did. It’s why she never understood why her sister always acted so brashly. Sansa felt all the same things that Arya did, but she never acted so thoughtlessly.

“It’s weird,” Sansa says, with an awkward little chuckle, “but I always thought that I’d be able to feel my family. Now I can’t even tell if my siblings are alive.” Margaery grasps her hand tightly, comfortingly.

“Would they be able to tell if you died?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know,” Sansa says tightly, as tears well in her eyes and her throat constricts, “I felt my father die, but I didn’t feel Bran and Rickon die. Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to feel if Joffrey decided to lop my head off.” She tries to will the tears away, but it’s harder than she would have thought. Allowing part of her true, deep emotions through her mask was been a terrible idea. Now she’s not certain that she’ll be able to slip it back on.

Margaery grips her hand a little tighter, and does not speak as they walk through the gardens. It’s comforting all the same.

 

Sansa knows that she shouldn’t get her hopes up, but she has faith in Margaery. She thinks that the other girl, the other gorgeous, kind, wonderful girl could do anything. She could save Sansa, maybe she could even love her. She pushes the dream to the corner of her mind, and holds Margaery’s hand a little bit tighter.

* * *

 

 

The months pass, and it is soon nearly a month until Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding. Sansa has come to accept that Margaery is very capable, but even she might not be able to uncage Sansa’s wolf. The thought saddens her immensely, but she tries not to let it show. She does not want to make Margaery feel guilty, especially with her marriage to a monster is looming on the horizon.

They change course that day, and ride out far away from the Red Keep, trailed only by a few of Margaery’s cousins.

“I found a spell,” Margaery tells her, when they are a safe distance away from the capitol. Sansa tries to contain her excitement; ladies don’t squeal like pigs. It’s difficult, though, and she ends up shouting anyway, and nearly falling off her horse. Margaery stops abruptly, and tries to help her readjust her saddle.

Her voice drops very low as she looks up to Sansa and says, “But we’d have to, we’d have to have sex for it work.”

Sansa blushes furiously, and tries not to look down at Margaery. She tries to avoid looking at her lush lips or her full breasts or her gorgeous locks of hair. It doesn’t work.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” she says softly, as she tries to ignore the hot feeling between her legs. She rubs embarrassedly against the saddle, and hopes that her cheeks aren’t as red as she thinks that they are.

“Are you certain?” Margaery asks, backing away from the horse, “because I wouldn’t want to-“ Sansa nearly throws herself off of her horse. She doesn’t know what Margaery was about to say, because she seals her lips over the other girl’s in a hungry kiss.

“I am certain,” she says, forcing herself back for a moment, “are you?” Margaery’s answer comes not in words, but in another, fiercer kiss.

 

After what seems like only a few moments, Margaery breaks their kiss.

“We should tie up our horses,” she eventually tells her, and Sansa blushes.

“Or perhaps we should return to the Red Keep.” she adds. Sansa frowns, but eventually consents. Margaery’s chambers would be a far better place for them to do the deed than in the middle of a field.

* * *

 

 

Margaery’s chambers are certainly homier than her own. They are lit up with candles, and both her drapes and her bedspread are light, Tyrell green. She has more than one throw pillow embroidered with a golden rose.

 

All thoughts of decor are lost as Margaery cups her cheek. They kiss softly, tentatively at first, but Margaery soon increases the pace. Sansa follows her, and presses into the warmth of her mouth and the warmth of that area between her legs. Margaery snakes her fingers from Sansa’s hips into the wetness and Sansa juts her hips against her. She needs more friction, she needs touching, gods, she needs more of Margaery. The other girl starts to make circles and Sansa can’t stand it, she thrusts harder and kisses more fiercely because she’s never needed anything as much as she needs Margaery.

 

She balls her hand into Margaery’s thick curly hair. The other girl moans a bit, and Sansa groans in pleasure as she increases her own pace. She feels something building in her gut, and all she wants is to release it.

 

The feeling builds and builds until finally it explodes in a final, blissful climax.

 

She screams as an uncontrollable heat fills her body, and curls limply onto the bed.

 

Margaery wraps her body around her, and Sansa thinks that she never wants to move. She feels warm and limp and loved and if she were to die now, she’d die happy.

* * *

 

 

 

The morning light enters the room through the drapes. Margaery is already gathering her cauldron and supplies.

 _Oh_ , Sansa remembers, _the spell._ She had almost forgotten in the ecstatic chaos that last night became. The other girl starts to chant as she drops in the supplies.

 

“Thorn of a rose,” she says, “and venom of a vampire.” She drops both into the steaming cauldron.

“Sperm of a goat,” she sing-songs, “and skin of a shape-shifter,” She pours a vile of white liquid into her mix and drops a bit of skin.

“Ear of a selkie,” she adds, as she adds an ear that might well have come from a Greyjoy or Redwyne into her bubbling broth. She draws a dagger from her bag.

“Blood of a lover, willingly drawn,” she says, slitting a small wound on her thigh and letting it drip into the cauldron. A mushroom-shaped cloud of dark, bilious vapor springs from the pot.

“It’s finished,” Margaery says with a grin. She draws the wooden ladle out of the frankly toxic looking concoction.

“Drink,” she tells Sansa. Sansa raises an eyebrow, but Margaery simply shoves the ladle closer to her mouth. Sansa doesn’t argue with her, and drinks the sludge. Sansa almost vomits the moment that it touches her tongue.

“You must keep it down,” Margaery tells her, “only then will it work.” Sansa forces down the vile mixture, and tries to will away her nausea.

“When will it go into effect?” Sansa asks.

“During the next full moon,” Margaery tells her. There’s a sort of grin there that doesn’t seem entirely benign, but Sansa forces her thoughts away. Margaery has saved her, and Margaery has made her life worth living. She kisses the other girl, again, and Margaery kisses back.

* * *

 

 

Sansa doesn’t want to attend the wedding or the feast, but Margaery begs her. She would have had to attend anyway, but Margaery’s begging is a much more fun motivation than the threat of death or beatings.

 

The minstrels play a multitude of ballads from the Westerlands, and ladies and knights dance excitedly across the floor. Sansa picks at her food, and sneaks a few quick glances at Margaery. The other woman is a vision in violet, and half of her curly tendrils fall gracefully from her head. She looks elegant, and regal. She looks exactly the way that a queen should.

 

The full moon rises, and Sansa feels the light calling to her. How had she forgotten, how had she allowed herself into the feast with the moon looming like a beacon above her? She feels her form shifting, and her thoughts start to blur. She stops thinking and starts _feeling,_ instincts coming in the place of logic.

She feels her pack. For the first time in months, she feels her pack. Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon and Arya- they’re alive, all of them are _alive_. She feels gleefully alive, and she feels - hunger and rage, and bloodlust. She will make them pay for what they did to her and her father. For what they did to her pack. She hears screaming, lots of terrified, disorganized screaming, but it’s distant to her ears.

Her memories are a fuzzy haze and she remembers that the blonde boy in the crown hurt her father. He destroyed her pack. She will make him pay.

 

She lunges forward, and digs her teeth into his neck. She tears at his flesh, and his warm blood runs onto her muzzle and into her mouth. The brown-haired girl beside him, her friend _\- lover_ , she remembers, do not hurt her. The girl smiles sweetly at her, and even seems to be enjoying the boy’s demise. A blonde-haired woman runs frantically around the room, shouting orders at guards.

 

“I know it was you,” she tells the brown-haired girl, “this is all your fault.” The other girl just smiles.

There’s a sort of wild terror in the blonde woman’s eyes, and she remembers her. She remembers this woman cutting her off from her wolf, and watching as the boy took off her father’s head.

 

This woman is a Lannister- an enemy, and she sinks her teeth into the woman's neck, the warm blood dripping down her muzzle. The woman's strident screams fill the room, and Sansa remembers. She is not just a wolf, but a girl as well. Girls don’t kill people. Girls don’t kill kings and queens.

 _Sansa_ is doomed.

 

The guards close in on her, and Sansa growls. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. She knows that she cannot allow them to catch her. They’ll execute her or throw her in a deep, dark cell. They’ll leave her all alone in the dark with chaffing rope wrapped round her wrists, like Margaery did in her dream. The party guests scuffle around in terror while the guards frantically draw their weapons. Margaery runs towards them.

"Don't hurt her," she says, "please, she didn't know what she was doing. Please- just don't kill her." Sansa doesn't have much time to dwell on Margaery's words.

 

Sansa has to run. She has to fight her way out of King’s Landing. There’s blood on her muzzle- king’s blood and queen's blood, and she knows that she cannot stay here. She bears her teeth at the white cloak who is waving his spear at her.

Sansa runs. She tries to work her way through the crowd of terrified party guests and out of the hall.

 

“Throw your knife!” She hears someone shout, and she increases her pace. The adrenaline courses through her body. She feels concern and fear flooding through her system from her siblings, and she runs faster.

 

She can’t believe that she lost control. She can’t- she can’t- and suddenly a sharp pain shoots through her flank.

 

She’s been hit.The myth that werewolves can only be harmed by silver was both made and perpetuated by her royal ancestors. There was never a lick of truth to it, as the Kingsguard must have learned.The guards surround her as a sharp pain shoots through Sansa's flank. She growls and tries to bat them away. She won't let them take her- she can't, and she fights as hard as she can.

 

The blood runs out her like a river. She licks her bloody lips.

 

The shouting grows fainter and fainter as her vision grows fuzzier, and Sansa takes a breath.

 

At least she died as a wolf.

* * *

 

 

 

 

Sansa is not sure whether she should be pleased or disappointed when she learns that she is not dead. The cell is dimly lit and opulent enough that it almost does not seem like one. Her arms are not bound, to her relief. She feels something dripping down her chin, blood she assumes, and tries to wipe it off on her sleeve. To her surprise, her sleeve does not stain, but the feeling does not leave her mouth. She wonders if the feeling of the blood ever will.

 

The door knob turns, and Margaery Tyrell enters the room, clad in mourning black.

 

"My, my Sansa," she says with a teasing little lilt, "haven't you been naughty. You killed both my husband and my good mother." Sansa doesn't think that she could find her voice, let alone the words to say.

 

"I had to get another one," Margaery says, leaning against the doorway.

 

"Who?" Sansa asks, racking her brain about who Margaery could have wed in such a short period of time.

 

"Tommen," Margaery says off-handedly, "you know, it's good to be queen." A cold feeling shoots through Sansa as a terrifying realization hits her.

 

“You let me kill them,” Sansa says, “didn’t you?” Margaery doesn't answer her question.

 

“I am queen, and they are dead,” Margaery says, sending her a puzzled look, “why is that such a bad thing?” Sansa doesn't know how to put the blood dripping from her muzzle, the horror, or even the betrayal into words. Margaery seems to think that she's done nothing wrong, but she sends her an exasperated look. Sansa’s conglomeration of negative emotions must have shown on her face.

 

"I freed your wolf," Margaery says, "I loved you. Is that not enough?" Margaery traded her magical cage for a physical one and gave her guilt to match her fear. Love is her father making a false confession to try to save her. Love is her mother staying by Bran’s bedside for days at a time. Margaery freeing her wolf only to let her kill the Lannisters, that is not love. That’s selfishness. Even their passionate night between the sheets was not love, and Sansa’s not positive it was even lust for Margaery, except a lust for power. Sansa feels a rage bubbling in her veins.

 

"Enough?" Sansa asks, "you never did anything for me. You did that for yourself." Margaery's quizzical look almost sends her off the edge.

 

"You'll leave me alone in the dark," Sansa says. She does not even bother mentioning her blood-stained muzzle or the fact that she will never be able to run through the woods as a wolf again. She does not want say anything else, or she's afraid that she will spew all her feelings like vomit.

 

"I'll be able to convince Tommen to free you soon enough," Margaery says dismissively. The bubbles of anger within her become a raging wildfire. How can this woman not understand what she's done to her? How can she think that things will end up alright, that they can somehow go back to the way things were?

 

"Get out," Sansa growls, throwing a pillow at her. She grasps at the bedspread and tries desperately trying to keep herself back. She's afraid of what might happen if she lets herself charge. She can't let her anger consume her, because she can't allow herself to spatter more blood on her hands. Even two monstrous people’s blood is more than what she wanted on her muzzle.

 

"Sansa," Margaery says softly, "I-"

 "Get out," Sansa howls. Margaery is an intuitive woman, and realizes quickly that she is fighting a losing battle. She turns quickly around, her skirts spinning behind her and slips out of the door. She slams it behind her.

 

Sansa remembers her dream, and she knows that she can't stay here. Margaery _will_ leave her here, and she knows it. She _has_ to escape. She grabs roughly at the knob, trying desperately to turn it. She shifts, and she claws wildly at the wooden door while she howls in frustration.

 

She'll be left alone in the dark, with her bloody muzzle. She howls in futile frustration, and wonders if anyone can hear her. At least her family is alive, because Sansa doubts if she will be for very long.

 

Regicides don't often keep their heads. She curls up in a little ball of wolf, and tries to focus on her siblings' auras. At least she can remember that her pack still lives.

There is some hope in this dismal world.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me about this fic. Or about a different fic. Or about fluffy sansaery head-canons. 
> 
> I'm pretty up for anything.


End file.
